


Moonlighter

by Hallianna



Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU Jaskier, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Dread pirate roberts inspired, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is a BAMF, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Smut, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, beginnings/origins au, folkhero!jaskier, jaskier au, jaskier origins au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28557144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: The sudden snapping of branches and undergrowth had him up on his feet not a minute later, sword out, Aard half formed between his fingers. He caught the scent of four - no five - humans on the wind and running straight for him. A blur of black leapt into the flickering light of the fire, spun, and faced the other four humans who were chasing them.“Appreciate you not hitting me with that,” he said between pants, motioning to Geralt’s Sign. “Come on! Face me!”The bandits crashed into the campsite and the man in black raced forward, sword out. Geralt hit the bandits with Aard; they were sent flying backwards into the trees, landing on their asses. He’d recognized the masked figure the moment he came into the light and with a stiff nod said, “Moonlighter.”The man grinned big and wide. “Glad to know my reputation precedes me. Care to help me knock around a few bandits?”Geralt could hear them struggling to stand against the force of his Sign. “You’re interrupting my dinner.”AU where Jaskier is a masked crime fighter who gets injured and needs Geralt’s help.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069358
Comments: 42
Kudos: 241





	1. Beware You Brigands

**Author's Note:**

> WOOO another series entry! I suddenly had this image of Jaskier as a Dread Pirate Roberts-style character and once that hit me, it wasn't letting go.

“You brigands! You’ve picked the wrong cart to rob!”

Steel flashed in the light of the full moon as a figure in dark clothing leapt out from a pile of hay in the ragged cart pulled by two mares past their prime. As the cart’s inhabitants and driver screamed and fled - per their instruction, of course - the figure fought off four brigands on their own, armed only with a longsword and dagger.

Dancing backwards toward the lantern one of the bandits had dropped on the ground, the black-clad swordsman swiftly kicked out a foot, tripping the bandit who rushed him with a yell. As that man hit the ground with a hard thud, his friend dashed toward the hero, brandishing a wicked-edged hunting knife. “Gonna skin ya!” he yelled, gold tooth glinting.

One pommel to the face later, the bandit lay on the ground screaming as he clutched at his broken nose. The other two bandits now wore worried looks on their scarred faces. “Well come on then!” the swordsman said, one hand on his hip teasingly. “It’s no fun if half of you give up.”

“Crazy bastard!” one of the bandits said, breaking into a run in hopes of being swallowed by the inky black night. The last one standing eyed his moaning companions on the ground and from some unknown depth, summoned a spark of courage and ran forward. 

He was dispatched just as quickly.

The swordsman deftly tied up all three bandits and unceremoniously heaved them into the cart. “Well, gentlemen, that was thrilling but I’ve a bounty to collect. My sparrows will be by in a few minutes to drag your worthless asses to the local constabulary.” He leaned in with a smile. “Next time, perhaps consider who you’re robbing before blindly charging into the first cart on the road. You never know who is driving it.”

He tossed them a roguish wink and walked away whistling as he sheathed his weapons. Once under cover of night, Julian ripped off his mask and stuffed it in his pocket, then divested himself of his shirt, turned it inside out to show dark green instead of black, and tucked it into his trousers. There was the faintest splatter of blood near the right knee, so he scooped up a handful of mud and rubbed it into the fabric. The squelch of body-temperature dirt and gods knew what else made him wince. “Ah what we heroes won’t do,” he mused quietly.

* * *

_Two months later_

Geralt slid the torn poster across the alderman’s desk. “This is the only contract?”

The alderman, a portly man nearing his sixtieth year who still had the eyes of someone half that age, steepled his fingers over his stomach as he leaned back. “Aye, that’s it. You cleaned out those harpy nests so well last summer they’ve decided to nest elsewhere. I’ve a mind to pay you a fee just for that.”

A glint sparked in the Witcher’s eye. “Would you then?”

The alderman shrugged, dug in a desk drawer, and tossed a small bag of coin in front of Geralt. “The townspeople are happy, so I’m happy. Tell Glenda over at The Pot and Kettle I sent ya, she’ll get you a room. Might be the attic, but it’ll be better than sleeping in the stables.”

“I’ll sleep outside.”

The alderman shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you go round, she’ll feed ya.”

Hmm.” He peered down at the poster again. “I’ve seen this in the last three towns. Who the hell is The Moonlighter?”

“Bit a’ trouble, that’n. Not for me, mind you. He tears into bandits and highway robbers like I’ve never seen. Brings them to the authorities, collects a fee, moves on.” The alderman’s face crinkled with a smile. “Bit like a Witcher, come to think of it. But all the witnesses say he’s much more lithe, like a second-story man. But I’d be careful. Not everyone’s going to be as understanding of the impossibilities of a Witcher bein’ a vigilante.”

“I don’t usually hunt humans,” Geralt grumbled. But the potential was interesting. Up and down the Pontar taverns and markets were talking about the man in all black, wearing a mask and a ridiculous feathered hat, dispatching common criminals as easily as a Witcher slices through drowners. “And this man seems to be doing more good than harm.”

“That he is, that he is. If someone were to bring him to me, I’d give him a reward and my daughter’s hand in marriage.” The man laughed, a jolly sound that got caught in Geralt’s ears. “But like I said, not everyone’s as keen on him.”

“Can I keep this?”

Another shrug. “Do what ya like, Witcher. But if you do run into him, tell him Alderman Feliz in Highwater owes him an ale or three.”

“Hmm.” Geralt snatched the paper off the desk, folded it up, and tucked it into a pocket. “Much obliged, Alderman.”

“All right, then, good sir. Oh, and if you want a decent spot to camp, there’s an old site down by the river. Go east about two miles, then turn at the well. We drove the kids out of there but should be a fire ring and such.” He slid a bottle of halfway decent wine across the desk. “My thanks.”

Geralt picked up the wine with a nod and marched back out to where Roach was tied up outside. “Come on, girl. We’re staying out with the stars tonight,” he said softly as he swung up into the saddle and rode out of town.

It didn’t take long to find the site the alderman had told him about and there was indeed an old fire pit and a few bits of dried out wood which had primed in the hot summer sun. Now with the breeze off the water and night fully settled in, the weather was actually pleasant. Geralt sighed as he went about preparing his camp, feeding and tending to Roach, and setting up a small cooking pot with root vegetables he’d kept for just such an occasion. The work was meditative in and of itself and if he’d been the type, he would have hummed as he worked. 

Instead, the buzz of cicadas and the hoot of an owl overhead droned on as dinner cooked. Geralt pulled the cork out of the wine with his teeth and took a long swig, feeling its warmth settle in his gut. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the night and the river gurgling over rocks in the distance.

The sudden snapping of branches and undergrowth had him up on his feet not a minute later, sword out, **_Aard_ **half formed between his fingers. He caught the scent of four - no five - humans on the wind and running straight for him. A blur of black leapt into the flickering light of the fire, spun, and faced the other four humans who were chasing them.

“Appreciate you not hitting me with that,” he said between pants, motioning to Geralt’s Sign. “Come on! Face me!”

The bandits crashed into the campsite and the man in black raced forward, sword out. Geralt hit the bandits with **_Aard_ **; they were sent flying backwards into the trees, landing on their asses. He’d recognized the masked figure the moment he came into the light and with a stiff nod said, “Moonlighter.”

The man grinned big and wide. “Glad to know my reputation precedes me. Care to help me knock around a few bandits?”

Geralt could hear them struggling to stand against the force of his Sign. “You’re interrupting my dinner.”

The man stared at him, deep blue eyes wide before he cracked open a laugh that made space in Geralt’s ribs. “Suit yourself.” And he ran back into the woods with a cry of, “Come on you worthless fucks!”

As tempting as it was to sit back down and ignore the fighting behind him, that wasn’t the Witcher way. And it wasn’t Geralt’s, either. With a grumble, he trudged after the man, who was far quicker than he had any right to be. 

The fighting had moved several dozen yards into the thick undergrowth and as Geralt raced forward, he watched the Moonlighter sweep one bandit’s feet out from under him, then turn and clash swords with another while a third circled him, looking for an opening. That was the one that met Witcher steel, collapsing to the ground holding his bleeding arm. Geralt kept one eye on the swordfight mere feet from him while scanning for the fourth bandit. 

There was a flash of light which blinded all in the vicinity, then a cry of pain, then he heard more breaking of sticks as two figures dashed away. As he blinked watering eyes against the light, he saw the masked figure stumbling toward him. “Bastards. No fair using magic,” the man spat before collapsing at Geralt’s feet.

He smelled blood, hot and coppery and pulsing. The man was bleeding from what looked like a stab wound on his side. The gush of blood was thick, splattering his dark leather armor. “Shit,” Geralt said as he bent down. “Can you talk?”

The man coughed then winced and held tight to his wound. “Barely. Stupid asshole stabbed then ran off.”

“If you’re talking and conscious, it’s probably not life-threatening.”

“Probably?” His voice went up an octave. “How thrilling. Done in by a two-bit bandit’s blade. Thus will be the end of my story.”

Geralt fought not to roll his eyes. “Let’s get you patched up.” He hooked an arm around the man’s waist, avoiding his injury, and pulled him to his feet.

“Oh my.”

“What?”

He grinned but it was pained. “You are _very_ strong, sir Witcher. Very. A lesser man might swoon.”

Despite himself, Geralt gave a rusty chuckle as he stooped to snatch up the man’s sword. It was a very nice weapon, more gaudy than Geralt’s taste ran but he could tell it had been made by a master smith. “If you want the full impact, I’d have to pick you up.”

He clucked his tongue and, with Geralt’s help, began hobbling back to the campsite. “Now you’re just teasing me. Very unfair, teasing an injured man.”

“Hmmm.”

The man laughed, then coughed. “Oh Melitele’s _arse_ that hurts. Don’t make me laugh.”

The look Roach gave them was beyond reproach and Geralt knew he was being scolded for interrupting her dinner. His dinner, which was still simmering, smelled promising and he was grateful it hadn’t been scattered to the ground in the middle of the fight. With as much gentleness as he could, he set the masked man up against one of the logs around the fire and started rummaging in his pack for bandages and salve. “I’ve got a kit in my pack. Stuffed it into a hollow tree by the riverbed. Don’t waste your supplies on me.”

Geralt glanced toward the river and then back at the man. “Don’t try to run off with that wound. You’ll cause more damage.” He retrieved a clean rag from his pack and pressed it against the wound. “Hold that here while I go get the pack. Keep pressure on it.”

“Ha. Ha! Wouldn’t dream of running off, not when you’ve set up such a splendid little camp and you’ve got a horse that could trample me with her stare.” He slumped against the log and gave a tired grin. “I’ll be here. I’m not exactly the self-sacrificing type to wander off while my ribs are split open.”

Geralt gave him a curious look and after several long, heated seconds where the man felt like he was being skewered by that golden gaze, Geralt wandered into the dark to retrieve the pack.

“Well, this night got worse and then much better,” Julian said to the Witcher’s horse. “My god, that man sits on your back all day and you get to bask in his beautiful company? Lucky.” He paused, grin dropping from his face. “Here’s hoping he doesn’t decide I’m not worth the trouble and simply stab me himself and leave me to decay at the bottom of the river.”

Julian didn’t fully understand how sensitive Witcher hearing was, and that Geralt hadn’t yet moved out of range. As he closed his eyes, Geralt watched him from the shadows. An uncomfortable prickling had settled at the back of his neck and he found himself even more conflicted than a few seconds before. He truly did mean to patch the man up and let him head off into the night, but a second glance at that wound told him it was more serious than the Moonlighter was letting on.

And then there were the odd things he’d just said. Geralt didn’t know what to make of the man’s opinion on his appearance but his quip about being left at the bottom of the river tracked with what most people thought about Witchers. It was simply a fact of his existence. With a sigh, he trekked along the riverbed until he came to the hollow log and there was, indeed, a pack inside that rattled and clanked as Geralt lifted it out. He could smell various herbal concoctions and remedies within, along with the scent of steamed linen and the peppery spice of trail rations.

It was very much like a Witcher kit.

When he returned to camp, the man was dozing right where Geralt had left him, one hand gripping his wounded side. Geralt sat down beside him and took the now bloody rag from his fingers. “We need to get your armor off,” he rumbled.

Julian opened his eyes and found the Witcher _quite_ close. So close his breath fanned out over his neck, making him shiver. The Witcher shot him a look of concern. “I’m all right. Well, all right is a bit in the eye of the beholder.” He grinned again but it felt forced. “Appreciate your assistance, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Well, should I just call you Witcher?”

There was a long pause as Geralt pulled at the catches on Julian’s armor. “Geralt,” he said as the armor fell away, leaving the masked man in a bloodied shirt that stuck to his skin. While Geralt poured water into a small wooden bowl and retrieved more clean rags, Julian worked on trying to peel out of the now ruined shirt. 

“Geralt.” Julian rolled the name around in his mouth, learning the feel of it. He liked it, how it fell off the tongue and sounded neither brash or soft. “You may call me Julian.”

Geralt snorted. “I hope that’s not your real name, Moonlighter.”

“Oh pish, please. I’m a lot of things but I’m not some brick-brain from Velen.” He let his arms collapse to his sides with a sigh. “If I might impugn upon your generosity once more…” And he gestured to his shirt. “I’m afraid I’ve been bested by my own clothing.”

Geralt silently pulled the shirt away from Julian’s body, keeping his eyes on the bloody clothing so they didn’t wander over the skin that was revealed inch by inch. If he was ogling a wounded man who fought groups of bandits on his own, Geralt was clearly more hard up for company than he’d previously thought. 

It’s not that the man wasn’t attractive. He was, very much so. Muscular and lithe with strong arms and a tapered waist, his chest was generously dotted with freckles and covered in fine dark hair. He bore several scars, most of them white with age and easily identifiable as weapon blades. Though a puckered bit of skin near his right shoulder was from an arrow; Geralt had a similar scar on his left thigh.

Geralt could feel the weight of those blue eyes watching him as he carefully washed the wound then threaded a needle to stitch it up. “I hate this part,” Julian grumbled. “Here, wait.”

While Geralt watched, Julian tossed his hat to the side and ripped off his mask. “Better. Much better. I feel silly sitting here in that getup while you fondle my naked chest.” Geralt didn’t know what to say. He nodded once, then set about stitching the slash on Julian’s side. And all the while, those blue eyes watched him and his deft, steady hands and the fall of white hair across Geralt’s face. “You are very good at this,” Julian said softly, tone appreciative. “I imagine you’ve had to stitch yourself up quite a bit.”

“Yes.” When Julian unconsciously rocked forward into Geralt’s touch, he pushed on his hip. “Don’t move. Try not to breathe too hard, either.”

Julian gave him a cheeky smile. “Yes, sir.”

The Witcher didn’t look amused. His expression was completely flat. “Hmmm.”

When Geralt had finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, Julian was sweating even in the cool night air. No matter how many times he had his wounds fixed up, it always hurt and he dreaded the prick of the needle. It was like having fingers _in_ your flesh, pulling and prodding and poking about and was deeply uncomfortable and often hurt like a fucker.

The warmth from Geralt’s hands had helped a little. He’d never known someone to run so hot. It was like being touched by fire itself, but instead of burning, it did something to Julian’s insides. He felt like he’d been picked up, held upside down, and shaken until the world swam; it made him dizzy. “I….oh, very good work,” he said softly, his tongue suddenly feeling thick and too big for his mouth.

Geralt’s head shot up, eyes dark with concern. “Julian?”

“Oh I’m...fine. _Fine_. I’m just gonna -”

He passed out in Geralt’s lap.

Geralt stared down at the unconscious man and his ridiculous flop of dark brown hair and the fine boned hand resting on his thigh. “Fuck.”


	2. Of Fevers and Manhandling

“Ugh.” Julian put a hand to his forehead and groaned again, eyes still screwed shut. “Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Comforting, coming from a man who sounds like a mountain.”

Silence save for the crackle of fire and the scrape of a spoon in a bowl. Julian pried one eye open and turned his head. The Witcher’s form was outlined in hazy orange and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was having some kind of vivid hallucination. He patted the cloth by his side, trying to understand why he was on the ground and...in a bedroll?

“You passed out.”

“Oh, well, that makes far more sense.”

Geralt snorted. “What did you think happened?”

“I was rather hoping when I woke up it would be in the bed of a handsome man, where we were both naked and lying on a bevy of furs.”

He didn’t need to see details to know Geralt was staring hard at him. Geralt cleared his throat and let his spoon clank in his bowl. 

The Witcher was grateful the other man couldn’t see the flush on his neck. He stood, putting his empty bowl aside, and snagged a canteen of fresh water. He came over to kneel by Julian’s side. “You’re feverish,” he said, pressing the back of a big, rough hand to his forehead. 

“Have I mentioned how much I hate being stabbed?” Julian was trying to keep the pained edge from his voice but he was pretty certain it was a losing battle. 

“You need a healer,” Geralt replied. “More than what I can do for you.” He handed the canteen to Julian, who drank from it with loud gulps.

“I knew I should have brought my potions. Damn.” Julian wiped at his sticky face and ….yes, he was actually too warm. And sweating. And come to think of it, he was feeling rather nauseous. “Would you get into my pack again? There’s a pocket on the inside. It’ll feel like the bottom of the pack but if you get your fingers under the fabric -“

Geralt stood, retrieved the pack, and brought it back to Julian. “What am I looking for?”

His fingers hit a scrap of velvet just as Julian said, “My coin pouch.” Geralt pulled out the little black velvet bag and handed it over. “Oh no, my very large Witcher friend, that’s for you.”

The bag dangled from Geralt’s fingertips and to say he looked confused would be an understatement. “Why?”

Julian sighed, coughed, then put a hand over his bandaged wound. “One, for helping me and stitching me up. Two, for not turning me into the authorities while I was passed out.” Despite his feverish, woozy head, he managed to smile. “I know for a fact that you could easily manhandle me wherever you wanted. Hells, I’d _let_ you.”

He coughed again, this one making his ribs rattle. “And three, because I’m about to invite you to my little hideout a few miles up the river because if I’m going to die, I’d prefer it not be in the woods.”

Geralt stared at him and Julian swore he could see the thoughts swirling. Or that was the fever. Either way, it was a long moment before Geralt tucked the purse into his belt and quickly set about rolling up camp and putting out the fire. “Don’t move,” he said gruffly over his shoulder as he put away his things. “And if you cough like that again, I’m going to make you drink a potion that tastes like malted licorice. It’s disgusting.”

Julian waved a limp hand at the Witcher and closed his eyes.

Time crawled and he focused on the sounds of the man moving about. Strangely his injury itched but didn’t hurt, which he figured was likely a bad sign. He could feel the fever in his body, weighing down his limbs and making him sweat. As someone who had been a rather sickly child, it was a familiar feeling to be wracked with the whole body flush of a fever, but Julian hated it. He hated being ill or injured. He hated relying on other people.

But the Witcher had his coin. And his trust. Geralt could have dumped his ass on the side of the road for the guard to find and rode off into the wilderness one hundred orens richer.

Instead, he was now scooping Julian up in his arms and tucking the blanket around his shoulders. “Guess I’m getting the full impact now,” he joked before he was hoisted onto Geralt’s horse and then quickly situated against a strong chest.

“Hold on,” the Witcher said in his ear. “And stay awake. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“West up the river three miles, and at the fork veer left. At the first hill, follow it to the valley below and you’ll see a shack. That’s where we’re going.”

That was the last coherent sentence he said before falling asleep.

* * *

Geralt held the smaller man close as Roach raced down the river path. The path was empty, as it was the middle of the night, which Geralt was grateful for. They would have made quite a sight in the daylight hours, an injured, feverish man looking for all intents and purposes as if he’d been kidnapped by the big, scary Witcher.

Small mercies. Every now and then, Fate threw him a small mercy.

Guilt gnawed at him, more annoying than sharp; its teeth blunt but persistent. He’d taken the man’s money, yes. He was doing Julian a service and shepherding him to where he wanted to be. Also true. And typically you were paid for services.

But he still felt guilty. This was a human being in need, someone who - for whatever blighted reason - had put his trust and his body in Geralt’s hands.

Geralt had watched the man fight and clocked his swordplay quickly as the Bennett style. It was popular among nobles and only _ever_ used among them. Typically in foolish duels that cost more pride than money. So on the ride over, he racked his brain for nobles he was aware of with the name Julian. And when he came up with nothing, he wound up with more questions than answers. 

Geralt hated not having answers. 

“Fuck,” he muttered as he pulled the feverish, sweaty man closer to him and bid Roach to run faster.

The shack was exactly where he’d said it’d be - tucked into a shadowy little valley between two hills, half hidden in dense forest. Idyllic, in a way, with the gentle blanket of night settled over the valley. He spurred Roach on, one arm wrapped around Julian’s chest to ensure he was still breathing and wouldn’t topple over.

As he guided Roach to a stop in front of the house - and it was a house, not a “shack” as Julian had called it - he squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Julian. We’re here.”

There was no answer. Panic flashed over him before Geralt settled his thoughts. Julian’s heart still beat, and while he was tacky with sweat and warmer than he should be, he was alive. 

He then turned his attention to the very solid, reinforced front door. Geralt really didn’t want to break it down, so he dropped the reins and slid his hand down until he felt the edge of a pocket. He managed to get two fingers in and gently poked until he realized the pocket was empty. Geralt switched hands, securing Julian’s body with his other arm, and searched the opposite pocket.

On a thin metal ring was a single key. “This better fit that door,” he muttered grouchily. He’d now been up all night, was starving, and was being paid to play nursemaid for a man who ran around in all black fighting common bandits with, of all things, the Bennett method.

“You need to learn better swordplay, Moonlighter,” he said as he lifted Julian out of the saddle. “Roach, stay. I’ll take care of you in a moment.” Roach stomped her foot and nudged Geralt with her nose, but obeyed.

Balancing Julian’s limp body with one arm, Geralt fumbled with the key until the door swung open. Though the inside of the little house was dark, Geralt could see well enough to spot the stove on the far wall beside a generous hearth and little kitchen workstation. Two worn armchairs were pulled up by the fireplace, and to the right of those was an open doorway. 

Geralt kicked the door shut and swung Julian back in his arms. The movement jostled the other man just enough that he made a distressed noise into Geralt’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” Geralt said softly, moving through the space to find a low, wood frame bed in the next room. He had to stoop to lay Julian down and cover him up; his back protested the motion and he breathed heavily through his nose as he straightened.

This night was a disaster. 

Staring down at the fevered man, Geralt bit his lip. Why trust a Witcher? It made no sense. No one trusted Witchers. Grumbling, he crept back out of the house and made nice to Roach until she nipped at his hair. “Yeah, I know. Weird fucking night.” 

The house had a small lean-to that would serve as a makeshift stable for one night. They’d had worse accommodations. He settled her with food and water, pulling water from the nearby hand pump and giving her the last few apples in his bag. With a final pat to her nose, he pulled his bags off her saddle and went back inside.

* * *

Julian woke up in a tangle of blankets, his eyes bleary and his head feeling as though someone had struck him with the blunt end of an axe. He winced and sat up slowly, doing his best to not pull at the stitches he’d forgotten he’d had until they made themselves sharply known.

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” It was not the most graceful motion, but he managed to get to his feet and stagger out of the bedroom to look around.

Yep, definitely his hideout. That was his stove and the worn armchairs he loved to read in. Those were his pots hanging on the wall and his washbasin in the corner. Those cloaks on pegs by the door were definitely his, because they were the latest style in Novigrad, trimmed in brocade with high collars and sweeping, dramatic hemlines.

But why was the room spinning? And the floor looked strange, almost hazy. Like heat lines off cobblestones in the summer.

“Woo,” he huffed and stumbled until his shoulder hit the wall. He was also sticky with sweat, some of which had dried and it was making his skin itch. “Hi house,” he slurred, stumbling forward again.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the Witcher appeared. “Back to bed.”

Julian grinned. “Yep. Bed. Me. You.” He leaned in to grin madly and whisper, “You just want to see me naked. Naughty.”

He swore the Witcher rolled his eyes and fought back a smirk. “Come on.”

Big, rough hands guided him back to the bed, where he collapsed with a sigh. “Ow.” The Witcher clucked his tongue at him and easily turned him over so Julian wasn’t facedown in the pillows. “That’s good. You have good hands, Geralt. Very strong. Manly.”

Now he was sure the Witcher chuckled. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yep. But I’m not wrong.” He flung his arm up in the air and waved a finger in Geralt’s face. “Big manly man Witcher. When I’m better, you better put those hands on me. Wanna be manhandled. Cause you’re pretty and brave and -“

Julian passed out again, much to Geralt’s relief. 

Well, fuck.


	3. An Interlude Reflecting on Bathing and Touching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, this was supposed to be 4 chapters. 
> 
> NO REGRETS

While Julian slept, Geralt dozed in one of the armchairs by the hearth. He’d cracked open a window to let in the cool air and now, staring out that very window, he contemplated.

The things that had been nagging at him were small, but consistent. Aside from the obvious issue of being waylaid from his duties to care for this man, there were little edges of truth that kept digging at him.

Julian was likely a noble. He fought alone and traveled from town to town, righting wrongs, then collected his earnings and moved on. A quick inventory of the man’s home brought up several potions that Geralt recognized as lesser versions or variations of ones he carried with him. And Julian used the Bennett sword fighting style.

On one of his jaunts a few years back, Eskel had learned the same style and incorporated it into his repertoire. He’d mentioned learning it from a bored noble who was quite adept with a sword.

Alone, these pieces didn’t add up to anything. But together, the sudden realization had made Geralt slump in his chair and stare into the middle distance until his eyes grew heavy.

When Julian awoke, Geralt had questions for him. About Witchers and swords and Eskel.

He definitely wouldn’t be bringing up the things the man had babbled at him in a feverish haze.

* * *

_ Some unknown amount of time later _

He smelled like an apothecary’s shop. That was the first thing Julian noticed as his consciousness awoke with a start. He blindly felt his injured side and found a sticky plaster of some kind glued to him like a second skin, a bandage over the deepest part of the wound. 

He was also no longer feverish. That was….good, right? At least in the sense that he wasn’t dead. Cracking one eye open, he stared out at the familiar walls of his little shack in the valley and sighed. Home sweet home, at least on this side of the Continent. But when his gaze alighted on the massive, slumbering form of the Witcher in one of the armchairs by the hearth, his anxiety ratched up.

Had he asked Geralt to bring him here? That was the only thing that made sense. He never brought anyone here and in his delirium, he must have asked the Witcher to return him to safety. What was baffling was why the big man was still here. In his house. Sleeping in one of his armchairs.

Julian rolled to his side and winced at the pull of tacky herbs and stitches, but managed to get to his feet without collapsing. He shuffled forward, noting he was naked save his smalls, and leaned heavily against the doorway to stare at Geralt.

Why was he still here? 

“We need to wash that plaster off,” Geralt rumbled, eyes still closed. “That shit is hard to get off once it dries completely.”

Julian froze. Tried not to breathe. When the Witcher didn’t make any move toward him, he stepped into the main room of the house and slowly sat down in the other armchair. “What is it?”

Now Geralt rolled one bright gold eye to look at him. “Healing plaster. Old Witcher recipe.”

“Oh.” Well, this was a scintillating conversation. Stuff of legends. May it forever be recorded in the annals of history. Julian didn’t want to say any of that out loud to his rescuer, of course. But he could think it.

With a grunt, Geralt hauled himself to his feet and held out a hand. “Come on. I already poured water in the bath, just need to heat it.”

“Oh. All right.”  _ Dammit, Jaskier, what a stupid thing to say. Stop staring like an addlebrained lummox and do what the man says. Er...indicates.  _ Slowly, he put his hand in Geralt’s and was swiftly lifted out of the chair, then guided over to where the tub sat on the far wall. One Witcher Sign later, the water began to steam and Julian stared at the tub, then back at Geralt. “Thank you.”

“Think you can manage?”

Julian nodded and Geralt ducked around the screen once more. “I need to see to my horse. Yell if you fall or get stuck.”

“Or start bleeding or faint?” Despite his aching body and fuzzy head, he couldn’t resist teasing; it was his nature.

Geralt’s head reappeared around the screen, his eyes going to the hand Julian had on the waistband of his smalls. “Hmmm.”

And then he was gone. “Well, all right then.” With great care, he stepped out of his smalls and into the  _ very _ hot water, hissing as it made contact with his oversensitive flesh. There was a cake of soap and a washcloth on the little shelf by the tub, so once settled he began to scrape at the hardened plaster on his skin. It curled in the water, floating on the surface and leaving little blue-green trails to spin lazily around him. As he neared the wound, he felt for the edges of stitches and….found none.

That wasn’t normal. “Uh, Geralt? Geralt?” A moment later - far more quickly than he was expecting - the Witcher strode back inside, brow creased in worry. Julian motioned to his side. “Is that normal?”

“Yeah.” Without pretense, Geralt came around the screen and knelt by the side of the tub, taking the cloth from Julian’s fingers. With efficient motions, he re-lathered it and began to gently swipe at the plaster; Julian noticed he’d wrapped the cloth around his hand so his fingers were covered. “We let it dry too long. It’ll be difficult to get off.”

At Geralt’s gentle insistence, Julian leaned back against the wall of the tub. “We? If I recall correctly, only one of us was hearty and whole this entire time.” He smirked, watching the Witcher’s golden eyes track his every little move. “If the plaster was an issue, you could have manhandled me while I slept.”

Geralt’s hand stilled on Julian’s ribs. And strangely, he looked away. “I don’t….I try not to touch people unless absolutely necessary. It’s just plaster, it’ll come off with enough hot water.” And he went back to scrubbing.

Julian gave him a confused look. “Why would you not touch people?” His question was met with silence and more eye contact avoidance. “Geralt.” When the Witcher still refused to look at him, Julian guided his chin forward with two fingers. He had an inkling, a notion to the reasoning, given to him by a Witcher he had met a few years back. Handsome and scarred and gentle, they’d spent several weeks traveling together. Eskel had also been touch-avoidant, careful to keep gloves on even in the warm summer months.

And one night Jaskier - before Julian and his rebirth as the first Moonlighter - came to Eskel and asked to touch. To kiss. To hold and brush and skim and yes, even fondle under a late summer waxing moon, the sky so dark the stars looked too far away.

By the light of the fire, he learned Eskel’s body and how he liked to be touched and tasted and fucked.

The image of the dark-haired Witcher’s face flashed before him and he sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. My mouth gets me into trouble on occasion.”

That earned him a smirk - ever so slight, but still there. “Just on occasion?”

With gentle insistence, Julian pulled Geralt closer. “Every now and then.” 

Geralt’s throat bobbed as he asked, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to reward my rescuer.” He arched an eyebrow at the Witcher. “Unless you count kissing as touching.”

Geralt froze, but didn’t pull away. “You already gave me your money.”

“Oh please. Coin is coin. It means nothing except the value we give it.” Julian dropped his gaze to Geralt’s lips. “A kiss is ephemeral. May I kiss you, Geralt?”

Geralt blinked. “Why would you want to?”

Oh how Julian’s heart - or rather, Jaskier’s - broke at those words. He smoothed the man’s cheek with his palm and watched his skin glisten with water from his touch. “So many reasons.” Bracing himself, he traced Geralt’s bottom lip with his thumb. And he got to revel in the softness that crept into Geralt’s eyes as he stared at the man who dared to touch him. “You don’t have to do anything,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Let me taste you.”


	4. Discovery and Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series is wrapping up, but if you really want more Witcher piles and plenty of smut, [Divine Pleasures of a Winter Fireside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908467) is where you want to go!

Geralt closed his eyes and waited. He didn’t have the words to give tacit permission, but he could _show_ trust. When nothing happened, Geralt began to worry that Julian didn’t understand. Then a soft slosh of water, and an even softer sigh, gave him just enough warning.

For some strange reason, Geralt wasn’t sure if it was a set of lips or the back of a hand pressed against his mouth. He couldn’t tell any difference, to be honest, and he wouldn’t blame Julian for changing his mind. Kissing a Witcher wasn’t something anyone dreamt of doing.

“Geralt.” Julian’s voice was quiet, and he finally cracked an eye open to see Julian staring at him with rapt, open fondness. “Am I your first kiss?”

His brow furrowed. “What? No.”

“And yet, you sit there like a gargoyle on a buttress.”

“No I’m not.”

The grin that spread over Julian’s face shot a bolt of lust through Geralt’s body. It was the grin of someone who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. “I’m going to give you a choice, dear Witcher. And it should be your choice, since you’re my rescuer and all.” Julian traced a fingertip over the ridges in his forehead, then down over his cheek. “You either get in here with me, or we go over to the bed.” That fingertip traced down his nose to land on Geralt’s lips. “Choose.”

A look of fear flashed over Geralt’s face - so quick Julian almost didn’t catch it. “You were just stabbed,” Geralt said, voice strained. “You don’t want this. And I’m not owed anything.”

Julian gestured to his side, where the plaster slowly was peeling away. “Old Witcher recipe,” he said teasingly as Geralt stared at the still red but knitted skin. “You all should sell it. You’d never have to worry about money again.” At Geralt’s noise of consternation, he laughed and placed a soothing hand over the one Geralt had on the edge of the tub. “I’m joking. About selling it.” He glanced at the bed, drawing Geralt’s gaze that direction. “Not about my question.”

Geralt wordlessly handed him a towel, then stood and ripped his shirt off over his head, dropping it to the floor in a heap.

 _Oh, that view_ , Julian thought as he drank in the sight of Geralt’s bare chest. “Fair is fair,” he said as he rose out of the water and stood, dripping, for Geralt to study at his leisure. “I’m no Witcher,” he said with a tinge of self-consciousness, “but I think I get along.”

What a sight it was. Geralt stared boldly and without caution or concern, taking in the man’s lithe, muscular frame. He was hairy in all the right places and Geralt ached to _touch_. 

“Like the view, do you?” Julian purred as he dried off his shoulders and chest, then stepped out of the tub to swipe absently at the rest of his body. “You’ve no idea what I can do yet.”

Geralt - _Geralt_ \- was being backed into the bedroom by a naked man half his size who had been dealt a vicious stab wound not twelve hours ago. He backed up until his knees hit the bed and he collapsed, landing heavily on the mattress and bouncing only a little from its generous give. Now his eyes were level with the middle of Julian’s torso and all Geralt could think about was how soft his skin, still shimmering with water, looked and how it would feel to his sword-callused hands. 

With no ceremony, Julian dropped the towel and clambered onto Geralt’s lap with ease and grace. It was all Geralt could do to hold on to Julian’s waist and keep his eyes trained upwards. “You, my dear Witcher,” Julian hummed in his ear, pressing in, “are exquisite. Anyone who has ever told you otherwise or inferred in any way you are lesser should be smacked upside the head.” Julian nuzzled at Geralt’s ear and got a stifled gasp in response. “Oh that sound. Keep making it for me, darling. It’s what I want.” 

Geralt’s chin was tipped up once again by gentle but insistent fingers and now he couldn’t look anywhere else but the deep sea blue of Julian’s eyes. “I don’t - I don’t know what this is,” he rasped, chest heaving. “But you make me feel all right. Safe.”

Julian stared at the Witcher in wonder for several long seconds before the sunniest, brightest grin broke out across his cherubic face. “Oh, Geralt. I’m about to do that and so much more.” He thumbed at Geralt’s bottom lip, indenting the plushness there. “Will you let me?”

Without a word, Geralt nodded and that was all Julian needed. He pushed the Witcher back, then down, wriggling and writhing until Geralt was on his back and staring up at planes of muscle encased in soft skin, topped with those ridiculous blue eyes and a slash of brown hair that Geralt wanted to grip between his fingers. “Please.”

The kiss was so soft, so gentle, but Geralt lost himself in it. Gods above, he hadn’t been kissed like this in….years? Decades? Ever? It didn’t matter right now. Julian was wiping away every bad moment, every foul word or accusation or stone thrown his way with such a simple, honest gesture. There was no rush of heat or spiral of lust. 

It was a breaking down, a de-escalation. A slow wrecking of walls he had built over his life to ensure that no one ever got too close, touched him too tenderly. Julian and his lips and his eyes and his care pushed one brick out of the wall, and Geralt was watching it slowly crumble. So he kissed him back, hands still high on Julian’s waist, fingers flat and non-demanding on that warm, damp skin.

The moment Geralt responded to him, Julian hummed in appreciation but he didn’t push. It was slow and methodical, with closed lips that carefully were pried open by Julian’s easy manner and the hand on the side of Geralt’s face. “Oh, you,” he whispered against Geralt’s lips. A sound might have escaped the Witcher, some broken little purr that was coerced from his chest. “Yes, darling. It’s okay.”

Julian kissed Geralt’s chin, then up his jaw with care, feeling stubble burn his lips and wanting more. Geralt lay like a boulder beneath him - or perhaps some kind of volcanic rock was a more apt metaphor, he thought with glee. Geralt was warm and smooth but nicked in all the right places and Julian’s fingers itched to explore. But Geralt’s responses, so sweet and innocent, were his focus.

When he got to the hinge of Geralt’s jaw and mouthed at the tender spot just below, Geralt let out a satisfied noise. “Like that, do you?” He did it again, now touching his tongue to that same spot and unbidden, Geralt jolted beneath him and Julian pulled back, concern radiating off him. “Was that too much? I’m so sorry -”

“No, please.” He’d barely touched the Witcher and he already looked wrecked. Julian would have preened if not for those amber eyes pleading with him. “Please. Anything.”

Julian’s brow furrowed. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, or if something hurts?”

Geralt nodded, that loose white hair luxurious and so stark against dark blue bedsheets. “Can’t hurt me.” There was something keen in his eyes then, a little spark that warmed Julian’s gut. “Pretty sure you know that.”

“Do I?” Julian thrust a bit more seduction into his voice, lowering its tone. “What would I know about Witchers?”

Geralt cupped his jaw with one big hand. “Pretty sure I’m not your first Witcher.”

Eskel’s face flashed in Julian’s mind and he grinned. “Oh, you’re good. And yes, you’re right. I met one several years ago and we traveled together for a bit. He taught me a few things about you Witchers and how….” He sighed dreamily. “How sensitive you all are.”

“Remind me to thank him,” Geralt said, some part of him hoping Julian would say Eskel’s name. “Maybe I know him.”

Julian shrugged, grinning. “Maybe. Maybe you should be grateful to him for showing me so many _delicious_ little things about Witcher bodies.” He ducked his head to run the tip of his tongue over the shell of Geralt’s ear. “Maybe we should both be grateful to him.” The groan Geralt let out made Julian’s grin spread. “I see we like that idea.”

Geralt let his gaze drift down over the man’s body, taking in all the little details that made up the story of his life. The scars and divots, the bumps and calluses. The dark hair he wanted to nose his way through, the freckles he wished to taste. This man was doing _something_ to him, unwinding the coil of a life lived on the fringes and all the fears and caution and secrecy that came with it. All the violence and blood and nights spent freezing or sweltering, having been driven out of yet another town populated by superstitious zealots or the fearful. Sometimes both.

“What are you looking at?” 

Julian’s soft question drew Geralt out of his mind and he looked up once more. “You. Trying to figure out why me.”

“Geralt.” Julian leaned down to press a kiss to his lips. “Darling.” He punctuated every word with another one, slowly opening Geralt up to his tongue. “My hero.”

“Yes, so good.”

“Beautiful man.”

“Open for me.”

“That’s it.”

Now Julian’s hands, so well behaved this entire time, roamed over Geralt’s chest. Brushed fingertips over slowly hardening nipples, catching on the puckered skin and drawing gasps from between Geralt’s kiss-swollen lips. He followed the touch of his fingers with the wet, hot slide of his lips and tongue and was rewarded with hands in his hair. Holding, guiding, not demanding or tugging. Julian was kissing down the middle of Geralt’s chest when he looked up and their gazes caught; blue on amber, lust on desire.

“Please.”

Julian broke. He was already stiff and aching and every brush of fabric against his red, weeping cock made him want to rock forward and take, take, take. Not now. Not this first time, when he could give so much to someone who sorely needed it.

“I’m going to take these off,” he said, watching Geralt’s face for any sign of unease. “And then I’m going to draw you into my mouth and let you feel. All right?” At Geralt’s nod, he swiftly loosened his trousers and began to pull them down, Geralt easing the way by lifting his hips. Trousers, then smalls, were flung backwards and he _finally_ got to look his fill.

Julian scratched lightly at the hair on Geralt’s legs, drawing hisses from him that were punctuated by shaky inhales. He soothed and petted and admired, tracing lines of muscle and aged scars, watching Geralt slowly unravel with just his touch. He was hauled up more than once to meet a hungry mouth that seemed to revel in the taste of him. Julian didn’t hold back his own noises of pleasure as his hands wandered.

When Geralt let his lips go, Julian sucked and licked his way down the Witcher’s body, tasting every little bit of skin he could. He counted ribs and scars with his lips and fingers, learning their stories through the map of Geralt’s body. With each stuttered breath and pleased utterance, Julian began to understand who Geralt was.

He ignored the man’s cock for now, planting small kisses on the insides of his hips, watching veins and muscles jump with every touch. Geralt didn’t talk but he didn’t hide his pleasure or appreciation at Julian’s touch. As he worked his way down to the insides of those impossibly strong, thick thighs, Geralt seemed to melt into the bed.

“Yes?” Julian asked, so close to where Geralt wanted him that he could feel the breath on his oversensitive skin. When Geralt turned his face away and frowned, Julian drew up to hover over him. “Tell me.”

“I don’t….I don’t finish easily,” he admitted, a flush creeping up his neck. “Don’t feel like you need to do that.”

“I want to.” He thumbed at that tempting bottom lip, watched Geralt draw it into his mouth. “Fuck, the things you do to me. The things I want to do _to you_.” He paused, a thought forming. “You should not be ashamed of your body, darling, but I understand.” He wiggled into Geralt’s touch, urging his hands lower. “Would you rather fuck me? Show me what you like?”

Julian was on his back and staring up at Geralt so quickly the room spun. He laughed, the sound so bright it made Geralt smile. “I take that as a yes.”

“Yes.” 

_I see who likes being in charge_ , he thought gleefully as Geralt lavished attention on his body, making him squirm. He was so careful around the healing wound, but every other bit of skin was licked and sucked and even gently bit and Julian ebbed on a tide of pleasure strung out like a fishing line. By the time Geralt was smoothing his palms down his thighs, Julian was floating, flushed and sweating and biting back curses at every little caress.

“Moonlighter.”

Julian shivered. “Oh, that’s a game we’ll play at some point. Right now, I just want you to fuck me.”


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no some feelings fell into my smut

_ Months later _

Jaskier kicked the door shut, as his hands were busy balancing a heavy tray of food and wine and his eyes were focused on not spilling it. “Hmmm, all right so they didn’t have any sausages but there was bacon. So I took it all.” He looked up with a grin, which dropped off his face when he saw Geralt and Eskel tangled on the bed together. “Oh, unfair. Completely, utterly unfair.”

“We were bored,” Eskel said, his voice a sword-edge of wickedness. 

Geralt pulled away from leaving another love bite on Eskel’s neck to roll his eyes. “He was bored.”

“And you weren’t?” Jaskier accused, but he was having a hard time keeping his expression incensed.

Geralt shrugged. “Look at him. How could I be bored?”

“Well, when you put it that way….” Jaskier set the tray down with a thump, snagging the wine bottle between two fingers only after shedding his shirt. “A little fortification before we go again?”

* * *

Jaskier - yes, he was back to Jaskier once again - had truly enjoyed meting out justice as The Moonlighter. One too many close calls had endangered him, but also Geralt, and it wasn’t worth the risk anymore. He abandoned the mask and the profession, handed it off to a young woman named Ellie who, like he had been years ago, was born nobility and sick to death of it. 

But he kept the hat. And the sword. A bard with a lute on his back, a fine blade at his hip, and a ridiculous feathered hat made for a more intriguing portrait. The whole picture convinced villagers and townsfolk that he had stories of adventure and daring-do (which, of course, he did), so they typically paid well. 

And if anyone gave him trouble, Geralt had only to glower at them.

Now The Moonlighter was off fighting crime in Novigrad and Jaskier was snuggled between two Witchers. A bit of a reunion tour; one that was sorely needed. Autumn brought its dry chill and bone rattling wind, and everyone said it would be winter far too soon. And so it was time for the Witchers to head to Kaer Morhen. 

“Haven’t had everyone back in years,” Eskel mused as he let his fingertips glide over Jaskier’s chest. “You’ll love it.”

“I hate the cold, you know,” Jaskier replied, bright blue eyes trained on Geralt’s naked form as he paced back and forth, gathering towels and soap. “But I suppose I’ll weather it for you two.”

Eskel laughed, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “We’ll build up your tolerance.”

“For the cold, or for this Lambert I keep hearing so much about?”

Geralt snorted and set down the last of the bathing accoutrements. “Lambert will take one look at you and haul you off for a ravishing.” The arch of his eyebrow was more than suggestive. “He’s a sucker for a set of pretty eyes.”

Jaskier scoffed and waved a hand at him airily. “Says the man with eyes like a fucking cat.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt swiftly came to the side of the bed and scooped Jaskier up. “You need a bath, Moonlighter,” he teased, leaving a few hot, wet kisses on Jaskier’s neck, fingers trailing over the dried mess on his stomach. “Someone left you sticky.”

Jaskier huffed but Eskel could tell he loved having Geralt’s attentions like this. He was content to watch them kiss, the quicksilver flash of their tongues making him feel too hot too quickly. “Come on you,” Jaskier purred at him as Geralt walked over to the sunken stone tub.

Eskel almost groaned. The tub alone was extravagant, big enough for five or six people but with just the three of them, they could spread out and enjoy the bubbling jets of water. Or curl up in a corner and let their hands drift and wander. He was looking forward to both. With a grunt, he rolled out of the bed, felt his back protest, and padded over.

“Oh, that’s good,” he groaned as he slipped into the water. “How does this even work?”

Geralt shrugged. “Magic, probably. They charge enough for it.”

“Hush, you,” Jaskier replied softly, putting a finger on Geralt’s lips. “You don’t get to tell me how I spend my ill-gotten gains.” 

Geralt snorted but didn’t argue. He ducked his head under the water and when he came up dripping...only to be pushed down again by Eskel as Jaskier laughed. “Piece of shit,” he growled, launching himself at his fellow Witcher. 

“I know how long you can hold your breath.” Something about Eskel’s words had Geralt launching himself in that direction and as they wrestled, throwing water everywhere, Jaskier sat back to watch.

The flicker of moonlight on the edge of his lute caught his eye. The time for his heroism had passed. But The Moonlighter lived again. He was more than grateful for another chance. One more day. One more week. One more night spent with them.


End file.
